


Rattle

by Anna_Hopkins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Fluff and Crack, Gen, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Anna_Hopkins
Summary: Original prompt: tumblr post by bassiter - "while looking up 1950s slang, I found the phrase "come on snake, let's rattle", which has two meanings: asking someone to dance, and challenging someone to a fightand. hhooooo boy does that fact have some Potential"
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 19
Kudos: 348
Collections: Tomarrymort Live Writes





	Rattle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally livewritten the afternoon of 29/03/2020.

Harry Potter woke up the day after the Third Task with the following certainty in his head.

If something was bound to happen at the end of every school year, next year, he'd be prepared for it.

So when he started having dreams of a long corridor, over the summer, Harry was  _ determined. _ He went as far as sneaking out of Privet Drive when the Dursleys weren't looking, holing up in the library to do research, at least until the Dementor attack and all.

Then he had the library at Grimmauld Place, which had a lot of wizarding history he could look through to find what he was searching for. Hermione thought he was doing his summer homework, or looking for new spells to learn. Harry did a bit of that.

But it wasn't what Harry was looking for in all the books he flipped through every day.

You see, Harry knew he'd be facing Voldemort at the end of fifth year either way, whether he was prepared to win or not. (He probably wouldn't win, but he  _ would _ probably escape.) What he was preparing for instead was...

...wordplay.

It was how all the famous duels went! There were always memorable quotes, statements that defined the moment in time. Magical and Muggle history both - even if Harry couldn't remember who'd said it, he remembered the weight of words. He wanted something dramatic but intense that would be in all the papers when they asked to quote him.

By summer's end, Harry found something. It was ‘50s slang for challenging someone to a fight. Perfect! He hastily memorized it, writing it down on the inside of his Defense textbook for that year (the only part of the book worth reading, if Hermione was to be believed).

All year after that, Harry was keyed up in anticipation. He taught his fellow students Defense. He kept up letters to Sirius. He saw his visions worsen. He gritted his teeth and wrote lines in his own blood. It was all coming together, and soon, very soon, he'd have his chance.

Even as things got worse, significantly worse, he never forgot. The worst of it all, he thought, was just before the confrontation itself, because Sirius was  _ dead, _ and Bellatrix had killed him - Harry wanted to  _ kill _ Bellatrix, he was chasing her into the Ministry Atrium, he'd cast the Cruciatus even if only for a second-

And then.

Harry felt the telltale pain in his scar.  _ It was time. _ He turned to Voldemort, raised his wand, and shouted,

"Come on, snake! Let's rattle!"

Voldemort froze.

Then he was abruptly very close to Harry, closing a broad, pale hand on Harry's wrist. "Goodness," the Dark Lord smiled, peering down at him. "I don't think I've heard anyone ask me that in years."

"What-" Harry's attempt to voice his confusion was cut off as he was pulled closer, and his left hand was guided to rest on Voldemort's shoulder, Voldemort's wand hand coming to rest on his waist. Half-repressed memories from his fourth year burst forth, and Harry finally realized what had happened.

He'd unintentionally asked Voldemort to dance.

The worst part, Harry found as he was now led along in a slow waltz - of  _ course _ Voldemort was leading - was that the man was talented enough to compensate for Harry's two left feet. It was almost  _ nice _ . Harry felt his cheeks heating and just knew he was going Gryffindor scarlet.

"Y-you don't find this strange at all?" he asked as they turned.

Voldemort blinked down at him. "Strange? Of course I do. But one can never be sure when the mood will strike, and a gentleman never turns down an invitation to dance."

"There isn't even music playing," Harry mumbled, averting his eyes.

["Isn't there?"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxHkLdQy5f0) And then Harry could hear it, too.

"I think I'm going mad," he informed Voldemort, not as a request for help (because that would just be the blind leading the blind, wouldn't it), but because the longer they danced, the louder the music seemed to get.

"Oh, it's not so bad when you get used to it," the Dark Lord laughed, bending Harry backwards in a dip - just as a red spell flew overhead. Wait, were there..? Harry turned to look, and saw that a battle had erupted in the Atrium around them, Death Eaters and Order members exchanging spellfire. He tried to pull away, alarmed, and Voldemort smirked, pulling him closer instead so they were chest-to-chest (or as close as one could be with their height difference).

"Not so soon, Harry," he murmured into Harry's hair, spinning them again. "We must at least finish one song before we part." And when had his voice started sounding so rich and warm, like the Tom that Harry had met in the Diary? "As the invitee, I am at liberty to request a second song, as well. May I suggest something by Prokofiev?"

"...All right," Harry agreed, in a daze. He found himself looking up at Voldemort, at the long eyelashes on his red eyes, at the lock of dark hair that bounced against his forehead, at the faint pink dusting his high cheekbones to match the color of his lips-

"When did you turn handsome again?" wondered Harry, brow furrowing.

Voldemort smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "The glamour doesn't hold up against close scrutiny."

"You mean... you always looked like this?" Harry breathed. He blinked a few times, flushing again. [The music in the background had changed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQoxAkuT-Yw) \- it was getting louder and louder, and when the drums joined in, Harry clutched at the Dark Lord's sleeve, biting his lip.

Spellfire burst multicolored in the background, but Harry hardly saw it, dazzled as he was. His heart raced, and he leaned closer, exhaling against the cool, black fabric of Voldemort's robes. "You've gone quiet," Voldemort murmured after a while, gazing down at him. "And our song is soon to end."

"Will you dance another?" Harry asked him.

A smirk played about the Dark Lord's lips, and he leaned down, touching their foreheads together. Harry wondered distantly why his scar wasn't hurting him. "Why, Harry, how scandalous," Voldemort teased. "Dancing three times in a row, with me? When you are not yet of marriageable age?" He turned them, as the second song began to wind down, and murmured against Harry's ear. "Are you sure?"

"O-oh," realized Harry, loosening his hold on Voldemort's sleeve. "I didn't - I  _ want _ to dance," he tried to explain, "but.."

He gasped, feeling lips press against his cheek. Voldemort stood back, giving him a last smile as he let go and separated them -

And disappeared, as did all the Death Eaters, in shimmering black fog.

Harry stumbled and fell, blinking up at the Atrium ceiling. Only now did the music fade away completely, allowing him to hear the shouts of familiar voices as people rushed to his side.

In another world, Albus Dumbledore leapt into the fray to duel Voldemort, and afterward, brought Harry to his office to discuss the prophecy that had led them all to the Ministry in the first place.

But after what he saw between flashes of red and green in the running battle through the Atrium, and from the way Harry reached for the empty space Voldemort left behind, wide-eyed, the Headmaster thought it best to wait until the boy had had a night's rest.

That way, when they met in Dumbledore's office the following morning, Harry had had enough time to compose himself, and listen without reacting.

Was it just him, or did the Prophecy sound almost... romantic?

Harry was vaguely disappointed when the conflict at the end of his sixth year didn't have Voldemort in it. He consoled himself with the knowledge that, once the funeral service was finished, he wasn't going to be returning to Hogwarts.

If he spent his last days at the Dursleys' practicing the waltz, no one was around to see.

At the Burrow, Harry found himself more enthusiastic about Bill and Fleur's wedding than he probably would have been otherwise. The reception would have dancing - and Harry couldn't help but grin at the prospect, even if it wouldn't be quite the same.

With Ron's help, he disguised himself as a stray Weasley, mingling with the surprisingly large crowd of guests. Ron's Aunt Muriel accosted him, demanding to be escorted to her seat-

"Fair lady," came a honeyed voice from behind Harry, "may I escort you in his stead?"

Harry turned, fighting to keep his smile off his face, while Muriel blushed, flustered, and took an iron grip on Voldemort's hand, 'allowing' him to escort her to the front row. The Dark Lord returned surprisingly quickly, and brought Harry's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. "It has been too long," he murmured, delighted, against the back of Harry's hand before he released it.

"How did you know it was me?" Harry asked quietly, giddy.

Voldemort leaned in, brushing a kiss against his cheek. "Glamours don't hold up against close scrutiny."

They sat, hand in hand, in the back row, watching the wedding. Harry rested his head on the Dark Lord's shoulder, amazed by how beautiful the marrying couple looked, even if the proceedings ran a bit long.

During the vows, Voldemort slipped an arm around Harry's waist, conjuring a stemless flower in his hand. Harry looked up at him, swallowing down his nerves. "Dance with me at the reception?" he asked.

Red eyes glittered in the dappled sunlight. "Come on, snake," the Dark Lord smiled. "Let's rattle."


End file.
